


Playing Pretend

by legendofthesevenstars



Category: Tenkuu no Escaflowne | The Vision of Escaflowne
Genre: Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 00:14:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21437014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legendofthesevenstars/pseuds/legendofthesevenstars
Summary: After the war ends, Allen intends to commission a portrait of his mother as a surprise for Celena's birthday. When Celena accidentally finds out, Allen and his sister turn to the dresses in their mother's closet to better understand her and themselves.
Relationships: Allen Schezar & Celena Schezar
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Playing Pretend

After the war’s end, Allen’s rise in status and wealth meant that he could commission the Asturian court painters. There were other services Millerna and Dryden offered him that he respectfully declined, all but the chance to have the court painters depict his late mother, Encia Beaumont Schezar.

No portrait had ever been made of her, or of anyone in the family, except for a grandfather who had died long before Allen was born, Leon’s father Solomon. He looked like the sort of man other nobles would deem “respectable” and that Allen would think of as plain old “boring.” Solomon would probably frown on Allen’s Fanelian speech tics (he still pronounced “r” a little funny), his enjoyment of battle and action, and his occasional glass of wine or beer. Not to mention the wrongs he’d done to the Schezar name, though it wasn’t as if Allen could have escaped being an anti-noble with Leon Schezar for a father. Either way, Solomon’s eyes seemed watchful enough that he wanted to replace the portrait with something warmer and more familiar.

Sunlight filled the studio, pouring in from windows on all sides. Allen straightened up, hands in his lap. He thought of Celena for probably the twentieth time that morning and hoped she was all right at home with Eries, not giving her too much of a hard time.

“Go over the description again,” the painter prompted him. “From the neck down.”

“Slightly shorter than me, with the same sort of thin build, and broad shoulders especially considering the size of her frame. She wore traditional dresses in many different colors, but especially green, blue, and pink, with large skirts and sleeves.”

“All right. And the face? Also like yours?”

“Not entirely. She has a rounder jaw.” He closed his eyes, trying to recall the details of her face. “She had thin lips—she never wore makeup—and her skin was a little paler than mine. Her nose was also significantly smaller.” Both he and Celena had been stuck with the Schezar nose; Chid was lucky to have inherited Marlene’s delicate nose instead. “And she had soft cheekbones, the same ears as I, and long, straight blonde hair, but with a lower hairline and no bangs.” He became aware of the scratching of the artist’s pen against paper, and he opened his eyes. “And I have my father’s eye color, but my mother’s eye shape.”

The pen kept scrabbling. Folding his hands in his lap, he thought about Mother’s dresses. How could the painter ever hope to capture how beautiful Mother had looked in her favorite heirlooms? Or how Mother’s smile had changed before and after Father left, from a muted but genuine smile to tightly pressing her lips together. He didn’t want to remember her unhappiness, but he didn’t want a portrait that was too cheerful either. At the very least, it should be dignified enough that Mother would not be unhappy with it.

“So, is your sister still recovering?” the painter asked. “I thought I might see her today.”

Allen’s stomach turned. Everyone knew about her and everyone asked. “No, I just want this to be a surprise for her birthday.”

“When would that be?”

“Eighth of Red.”

“You came well in advance.”

Allen scratched the back of his neck. “I was afraid six months was cutting it too close.”

“Not at all. It’s very helpful, in fact. I’ll have some sketches for you tomorrow and you can let me know how they look.”

—

None of the depictions of Mother’s face were quite right. He didn’t doubt the talent of the court painter; they were all beautiful faces, just not his mother’s face. Looking in the mirror, he wondered whether he’d been too conservative or liberal in comparing his features and his mother’s. He tried to picture her, call up visions of her face and her smile. He wanted to show the dresses in the closet to the painter. If only he had the strength to open up her closet, pick one out, and just take it with him in the carriage to the castle. But he couldn’t open her closet. He could sit at her desk and write, make the bed, put flowers in the vase, open the windows, but he still did not have the heart to open her closet and touch those dresses.

Celena had been far bolder, asking to be let in Mother’s room almost right away. And he’d hesitated at first. Only he had been with Mother in her last moments in that room, and it had taken him a long time to be able to go back in there and sit at her desk. Like a spoiled child, he was selfish and didn’t want to share Mother with Celena, but he gave up and let her in.

She’d been interested in Mother’s jewelry box more than the dresses. He’d let her look through and take whatever she wanted, as long as he could keep the lily stick pin with the ruby on it, to which she assented. It was surprisingly easy to just let her pick up, put back, and take any piece of jewelry. He wished it could be that easy with Mother’s dresses.

He was dissatisfied enough with the portraits to enlist her help again. Standing outside Celena’s childhood room, hands laced behind his back, he breathed in and knocked on her door.

“Yes, who is it?”

It sounded as if she were lying on the floor, probably reading or painting with watercolors. One of the first things she’d asked for when she came home was a set of watercolors. The old set she’d loved as a child had long since dried up.

“It’s Allen. Would you come with me to Mother’s room for a moment? I need your help with something.” He wouldn’t have to give the whole context. She would get up and come running.

And run up to the door she did, opening it with an eager smile and a nod. “Of course.”

Allen turned the key in the lock of Mother’s door and opened it, pushing aside the curtains and opening the shutters. Her flowers were starting to brown; he would have to replace them tomorrow. He drew in a short breath before facing Celena.

The curl of her hair aside—which must have been passed down from a grandparent—Celena’s face was a near-copy of Mother’s. How could he not have noticed? Her resemblance to Mother was so eerie that he was unsure that there was any Schezar in her other than the hairline and nose. Especially now that she wore Mother’s earrings. If she put on one of those dresses, maybe the painter would have a better idea of what Mother had looked like. But no. It was supposed to be a surprise, and he had vowed that it would stay that way.

“What’s the matter?” Celena asked. “You’re staring.”

“Nothing.” He blinked. “I do need your help. I don’t think I can open Mother’s closet by myself. But I have to see her dresses. It’s important.”

“Does this have to do with the sketches?”

Allen nearly choked. “What sketches?” he managed, as calmly as possible. Had he really left those out last night? Left them out in plain sight?

“Queen Millerna told me,” Celena said proudly.

Allen sighed. Well, Millerna hadn’t known it was supposed to be a surprise; that could be excused.

“She said you were having a portrait of Mother done,” Celena continued. “I saw the sketches, and to be honest, none of them really capture how sad she always looked.”

Allen’s heart fell. Celena was too young to recall when Mother smiled, when she and Father danced close when hosting the couples at their house.

“I don’t want a portrait of her sadness, because that’s not how I want to remember her. I want to remember her smile, her jewelry and her dresses, her love of flowers.”

“But you loved her just as much when she was sad, and she still loved all those things when she was sad, too.”

“I did. I loved her until her last.”

“Can we go visit her after this?”

Allen nodded. “First,” he took a deep breath in, turning toward the doors. His palms felt clammy, his stomach churning. He didn’t want to open that closet, yet he had to, needed to see it. What did he fear? That everything he had loved about his mother could suddenly come to life again before him, reminding him of an idyllic childhood long-gone? Why couldn’t he face it? She had been dead for eleven years now. The wound was no longer fresh. But she was his mother, his dearest, dearest mother in her elaborate and beautiful dresses—

He parted the doors.

The dresses were on fabric-covered hangers like they had always been, not arranged by color, but by some mysterious organizing system he had never wanted to disrupt as a child. He reached forward and touched them, feeling the stiff fabric, and he swore he could hear her voice—_Allen, Celena, it’s time to come in_—smell tea on the stove, hear her giggle when Father came up behind her and kissed her ears, see her lying in her bed frail and peaceful, and he fell to his knees, ugly choking sounds giving way to sobs and tears.

How was it possible? How had he gone on living in this house surrounded by his parents’ things, in the house where he’d been a child, happy and then not, everything taken away from him all at once? Were he in another house that was not ancestral, but still surrounded by his parents’ things, maybe it would be different. But here, living in the rooms his parents had lived in, the house in which they had loved each other and loved their children, where there had been a family, a family that was now cut in half, he didn’t know how he did it.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, then got to his feet and went to his room for a handkerchief. He blew his nose a few times, blinking and looking at the floorboards, then returned a few minutes later.

Celena stood there, halfway into one of Mother’s dresses, the other half still covered by her shirt. She met Allen’s eyes, and her eyes went wide, mortified.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please don’t get mad!” She waved her hands defensively. “I wanted to surprise you, but I got stuck. It’s confusing and I don’t want to tear anything, so can you please help me?”

Allen’s mouth was hanging open. He closed it and cleared his throat, trying to find his words. “I—I’m not angry, but I don’t want it to get torn either—”

Celena frowned. “No, you’re angry. I know you are. I just wanted to surprise you because you surprised me, but I should have asked.”

“Listen, Celena,” he said, perhaps a little more firmly than he intended, “I’m _not_ angry. I’m just a little—shaken.” He rubbed his forehead, pinching it between his fingers. Well, she’d already gotten halfway. And it could be helpful for the portrait. “How about this—to show you that I’m not angry, I’ll help you put it on.”

He beckoned her to stand up, and she stood, her back turned to him. He walked her over to the mirror and helped her lace up the corset of the dress. It was tight against her chest, but gappy on the shoulders and too long for her.

“Huh. Mother really was taller than I remembered,” Celena remarked.

Allen looked at them in the mirror. He noticed the dark circles underneath their eyes like always. He had expected he would look at Celena in the mirror and have some sort of revelation that she looked exactly like Mother, but that didn’t happen.

Then he had an idea. “Stay here,” he said, and rushed downstairs to Father’s study. His extra coat still hung on the hook; he grabbed it and the pair of binoculars and walked back upstairs wearing the coat. He came up behind Celena.

“Look, we match.”

She laughed.

“I’m surprised you wanted to try on Mother’s dress. I thought you were done with dresses,” Allen said.

“Do I look like her?”

What did Celena want him to say? “Not especially.”

“Oh.” She didn’t seem disappointed or satisfied with that statement.

Allen shrugged. “You just look like Celena.”

Celena looked at Allen. Then her face lit up. “Switch.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can be Papa and you can dress as Mama.”

Allen gasped. “You’re saying I should wear _her_ dress?”

“Maybe not this one.” It was pink and sort of lacy. Not one of Mother’s favorites either. “Perhaps a blue one would be better suited to a Knight Caeli?”

“All right.” He wasn’t against the idea. Something told him Celena would look better in the coat anyway.

He unlaced her corset, then turned around to allow her privacy. She took off the dress, and he turned back around once she had changed back into her shirt and pants. She handed the dress to him and showed him where it had been hanging, and he put it back, then browsed the rows of dresses as Celena twirled around in Father’s coat. Finally he settled on a green one, a floor-length day dress without a corset. It was one of the simpler dresses, but he knew she had worn this one often, not just because the sleeves were worried at the edges from working in the kitchen or because there were stains on the armpits, but also because he knew this dress, still remembered her standing in the kitchen wearing it, standing before him like a vision or a dream. His mother.

Allen unbuttoned his pants and took off his shirt, then started working his way into the dress. He was surprised that he could get into the thing without busting the middle. The sleeves he knew would be thin and tight, and he almost didn’t get them on. And he had nothing to fill in the chest, but it did allow a bit more room for his broader shoulders. Celena did the buttons, pearl shank buttons up and down the back; it was constricting even without the corset, but it was funny how it was nearly the perfect length. Mother really had been tall.

He exhaled the breath he’d been holding. It was deathly tight in some places, loose in others. As long as he didn’t make any wrong moves when taking the damn thing off, he would be able to preserve it.

And then he stood before the mirror.

He stared at himself for a moment. Aside from the shoulders, the jaw, the nose, and the flat chest, he looked like her. Just like her. And when he turned to Celena, he realized how much of Father was in her face. Each was a blend of their parents, two unique and different statues sculpted from the same molds.

And then he realized that Mother wouldn’t want to be alone in her portrait. Mother would want to be with Father and with her children. Why honor just Mother, just the Beaumont side of the family, when it was the Schezar house? And why stop at Mother and Father, when their children were living here too?

“How do I look?” Celena asked, spinning around in Father’s coat.

“Just like him. Though you’re a little shorter and a lot blonder. And you’re missing the mustache. How about me?”

“Like a taller version of Mama with no breasts?”

“Celena,” he chided her, but laughed as he did.

—

The painter had been silent for three hours. A week ago, the first few minutes after Allen and Celena had arrived had been rife with animated discussion, particularly when they’d first entered the room, Celena in Father’s oversized, clunky boots and baggy pants, Allen in Mother’s green dress. Allen explained Celena’s role in helping him realize his preference for a family portrait rather than a single portrait of just Mother, and that they wanted to sit as their parents first, then as themselves.

It was the third session of pretending to be their parents, and Allen had become used to the nostalgia and pain that washed over him every time he put on the dress. Celena didn’t have any particular connection to Father, since she was only three when he left, but Allen had been telling her what stories he could. Visiting their parents’ graves every day helped, too. Now that he had opened the closet, he felt that nothing was standing between him and Mother, that he could be honest to her about what had happened in his life and what he still had left to learn.

“I was just standing there waiting, Mother, and Princess Marlene came right up to me and, I’ll tell you, if she were alive, she would still insist that I swept her off her feet with the dancing skills I barely had,” he said, standing in front of her grave, Celena next to him.

“I had never picked up a sword in my life,” Celena continued, talking to Father, “but it felt as natural as breathing. It wasn’t long before I was beating Gatti and Shesta in every duel, and even Folken—and he was Zaibach’s best before I came along.”

Allen smirked. All those names he didn’t recognize—the Dragonslayers. All those names Celena didn’t recognize that he would talk about, Balgus, Marlene, his fellow knights, his men at Castelo, Hitomi, Chid. All the adventures they’d had. Would Mother and Father be proud? Would they smile in that portrait, looking down on their children with proud eyes?

“But, Mother, we went too far,” he continued on the third visit. “No, both of you should hear it. We slept together, though we were unmarried. I sullied her virgin bed, and she birthed a child who was not her husband’s.”

“I destroyed a country,” Celena said. “I know it wasn’t really ‘me.’ But I did that. I burned it all down. And I killed people. I killed, Mama, Papa. I killed…”

“I can’t be there for him. I never wanted it to turn out this way, though I know he was never destined to truly be my son, I want so badly to right your wrongs, Father, and I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t know who I am without him. I don’t want to be him anymore, but I can’t let go of him, not entirely. I hate it and it tears me up inside. I just wish I knew who I was.”

Their speeches concluded, they stared blankly at the graves for a moment.

Celena broke the silence, speaking slowly and deliberately.

“After all this pretending, I think I finally understand.”

“What?”

“Not even our parents know all the answers. Not even our house can hold all the answers. No one knows. Not the dead and not the living. We only know what to do what they always did. Because they taught us that way.”

“How did you think of that?”

“I had a lot of free time just sitting on my rear during the portrait session.”

“Celena,” he said with mock sharpness. He didn’t feel the need to scold her much for vulgarity or manners anymore. What was the point? As long as she wasn’t swearing or talking about body parts when Millerna and Eries were in the room, it didn’t matter.

“Anyway, we should get going home. Tomorrow we get to sit as ourselves and I want to have time to choose my earrings.”

“I need a lot of time to choose the same uniform I’ve been wearing for six years.”

Celena laughed and pushed his shoulder lightly. They turned around to make their way back home, and a pair of hands brushed their shoulders, and a chill shot up Allen’s spine.


End file.
